


when we were young(er)

by corvidity



Category: Gintama
Genre: (kind of?), Gen, Manga Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2016-02-29
Packaged: 2018-05-23 23:11:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6133390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corvidity/pseuds/corvidity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Utsuro offers a few words of comfort to a young Oboro.</p>
            </blockquote>





	when we were young(er)

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this [art](http://aishii-trash.tumblr.com/post/140117106395/for-the-art-requests-can-i-request-utsuro-and). 
> 
> I also deliberately chose not to name Utsuro as "Utsuro", because Oboro would not have thought of him as such (not to mention, parallels).

“Oboro.”

He looks up at the silhouetted figure, the sun behind him so strong his face falls into shadow. Despite this, the voice is kind and rich, warming Oboro better than any sunlight could. “What’s wrong? Is there something bothering you? The other children have already eaten.”

Oboro huddles into himself, which is quite easy given his size. Puberty is supposed to be a cringe-worthy experience for the person going through it; but somehow, the children have made it singularly unpleasant for the only one amongst them who hasn’t yet started his growth spurt. He would rather stab his own foot than endure for a second longer the jibes and taunts the others throw his way. It’s fine for _them,_ flexing their new muscles and moving to proper shajukos instead of shortened bamboo sticks. They can run longer and faster than him, while he stumbles in their wake on short, stubby legs.

“I’m not hungry,” Oboro grunts. The branches overhead rustle in a quiet breeze, and he’s glad for the momentary cool on what is otherwise a hot summer’s day. Sensei smiles genially, and the warmth in his eyes sharpens just the slightest bit.

“That was what you said at dinner yesterday, and breakfast this morning.” Silence. In a gentler tone, “Don’t look so downcast, little one.”

Oboro scowls. “Don’t call me little.”

Sensei's lips quirk upwards, and he bends down so that he can face the boy on the same level. The rings of his shakujo jangle brightly, and sunlight flashes off the gold. “Of course. I suppose it may be my fault you’re not growing as quickly as the others. I’ve never given my blood to any other person before, and I was not aware the effects could be so… distressing.”  

Oboro folds his arms, uncomfortable at the contrition in the other’s voice. His teacher shouldn’t have to feel guilty about saving his life. “It’s – it’s not your fault,” he mutters gallantly. “Maybe it’s just me. Even before you gave me your blood I was weak.”

“Nonsense.” This proclamation is accompanied by a firm but gentle bop on the head. “I’ve seen you training, and you work twice as hard as the other children. Your body may not have caught up with your mind yet, but you’re already leagues ahead of them.”

“R-really?” For a second Oboro blushes, and remembers who is speaking to him. “I mean, thank you! I’ll keep working really hard.”

Sensei laughs and ruffles his shaggy hair. “No doubt you will. And I suspect you’ll have plenty of time to sharpen your skills, so don’t let their taunts affect you. Just you wait, in a couple of years you’ll be outstripping all of them.”

At the mention of the other children, Oboro’s enthusiasm falters a little. He can’t pretend to be impervious to their sneering and sniggering, and with only a nebulous grasp of the passing of time it’s difficult to believe in a future where his superiority is recognised and feared.

Seeing his hesitation, Sensei offers up his own staff. Oboro stares at it. A flush that starts at the base of his neck moves down his spine, his blood both restless and eager. Maybe it’s because he hasn’t eaten much over the last two days; it would be the only reasonable explanation for why he feels the staff calling to him.

“Go on, it won’t bite.” The rings shake like hollow bones. Slowly, Oboro reaches for the handle, fingers curling around the sun-warmed metal. As Sensei lets go, the entire weight of the staff drops into Oboro’s hand, and he almost pitches forward at how unexpectedly heavy it is. Luckily, his reflexes are good and he corrects his balance quickly.

Sensei stands back up to observe Oboro. “It suits you,” he says.

The shakujo has a fluidity that their usual training staffs lack, and it almost feels alive, strength and power coiling beneath the metal. With the right training and technique, Oboro will be able to channel heaven’s fury through it, to do justice and carry out divine punishment. Reverently, he stares up at the rings.

In the breeze their murmuring is metallic, and they seem to be speaking to him. Oboro makes a silent promise. One day, when he’s deemed worthy enough, he’ll have his own shakujo, and he’ll use it to defend his teacher – the only person who thought his life worth saving, and the only one who believed in his strength.

Sensei nods approvingly as Oboro gives the shakujo an experimental heft, jabbing it to the left. Suddenly, a loud, starved grumbling splits the air. Oboro almost drops the staff in mortification, though it’s nothing Sensei hasn’t dealt with before.

“An excellent reminder,” he announces. “You’re a growing boy, and you need to eat. So let’s go back, alright?” Oboro makes to return the shakujo, but Sensei stops him. “I'd like you to hold onto it for me. In fact, you can use it for the rest of today's training." He pats Oboro on the head and smiles. "Can you do that?" 

With a small nod, Oboro trails after his teacher. From the empty dojo which they’ve been nesting in for weeks, the other children see their tall, willowy leader, and behind him, a small boy clutching a length of gold that seems to collect the afternoon sunlight.


End file.
